Epicurean Duress
by randommuffintpk
Summary: Whenever a case ends and Sherlock no longer has anything to occupy his restless mind, he can't shut up. One evening, in a fit of post-case boredom, an inconvenient truth comes to light and John is...less than pleased. Loosely based on Johnlock Plot Bunny No. 1. Enjoy.


**Loosely based off Johnlock Plot Bunny No. 1. Disclaimer: If I owned Sherlock, there's no way in hell that Johnlock would not be canon.**

**Rated Mature for saucy content and language, because Watson swears like a sailor when he's irritated.**

~…~…~

**Epicurean (adj.): fond of or adapted to luxury or indulgence in sensual pleasures.**

**Duress (n.): coercion, constraint; forcible restraint, especially imprisonment.**

~…~…~

John Watson was a man of few words.

Whenever he did speak, his phrasings were precise, measured, and premeditated. Good doctors did not mince words. Soldiers were trained to speak concisely, assuredly, promptly. An army doctor would be no different. Granted, he was usually a relatively content individual, but that contentment did not share the same space with "verbosity." He was perfectly fine with silence - in fact, he preferred it over nearly any noise that comes to the imagination.

So why in the bleeding hell did he live with Sherlock Holmes?

"I play the violin when I'm thinking; sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other."

Oh, John wasn't bothered by the promised "days on end" silence. On a case, Sherlock would lie upon the sofa like a dormant housecat, eyes at half-mast while he murmured lowly under his breath about some stabbing or shooting or bombing or such, hands characteristically steepled beneath his chin. It was during those evenings that John would make himself a nice steaming cuppa, change into his pyjamas, and read some good old Hemingway or McCarthy before trundling off to bed. Those were the nights.

As soon as a case was solved and he was no longer deducing, Sherlock, to put it politely, wouldn't shut the fuck up.

Sherlock had once stated that talking aloud helped him think. As far as John was concerned, that was the most honest statement that the other man had ever expressed. Sherlock's tendency towards loquacity was enough to make John grind his teeth. The detective jabbered to himself and to John in the kitchen, at his microscope, in the shower, out in public, in the mortuary, and the list went on. He even shouted at the people on the telly, for god's sake. John, who before his life with Sherlock had been quite used to prolonged periods of silence, was more than a little irked that he rarely found a moment's peace.

If you think about it, it makes perfectly logical sense that the doctor eventually snapped.

~…~…~

It all started on a Wednesday in the middle of April. Spring was in the air, the earth was singing of new beginnings... and John and Sherlock were being chased through the backstreets of Corby by four cronies of an international human trafficking ring. To the casual observer, Sherlock Holmes and his blogger were running in a completely random pattern, merely trying to stay ahead of their pursuers. Sherlock's morbid sense of humor supplied "Ah, ah, ah, ah, staying alive, staying alive" as he ran, and he wanted to smack himself. No time for that, though. They were almost to their ultimate destination.

He and John had been fleeing like maniacs, but Sherlock had deliberately made it so that their route had been very convoluted and very, very long. He needed to tire out his pursuers. Sherlock, being less than avidly athletic and not having eaten for the past two days, was running on pure adrenaline as he urged his long legs to move faster. John, on the other hand, got ordinary amounts of sleep, ate regular meals, and was an ex-soldier - he was perfectly fine as he allowed Sherlock to lead their flight.

Forty-three seconds later (yes, Sherlock was counting), the warehouse came into view. His energy flagging, he bolted for a door on the building's left side, wrenching it open and darting into the darkness within, John only a second behind.

The four henchmen were positively gleeful. Here were their targets, seeking refuge in an old building where all the windows were barred and the other doors likely locked. No way out, like rats in a trap. They were considerably winded, but they could catch their breath as they searched for the two men cowering within.

"Right," the lead crony, Eddie, grunted. He was short and fit, with cropped bleached blond hair, several scorpion tattoos, and at least six silver-capped teeth. "Two men for each mark. Arno and I can take the shorter one - he looks like he can put up a bigger fight. Dom, Curt, you look for the skinny one. He looks feisty, so feel free to have a bit of fun before you finish him." His smile glinted. "Let's go, boys." And throwing the door open, the four charged in.

In retrospect, the eight members of New Scotland Yard that were lying in wait ten feet into the building may have tackled the henchmen a little _too_ hard. Maybe it was because they could hear every word of Eddie's plans for John and Sherlock. Or maybe they were just a bit excited that Mr. Holmes' plan was a success. In any case, Eddie's forehead made a resounding _smack_ as he hit the floor, Arno nearly lost a tooth as he was slammed into the nearest wall, Dom shrieked like a frightened nine-year-old girl as two officers came barrelling toward him, and Curt's right shoe somehow went flying off his foot as he went down. It was all a bit surreal. And by "surreal," the author of this tale means "downright hilarious." She is grinning as she writes it.

Not five yards from the testosterone-infused smackdown that was occurring, Mr. Holmes and Doctor Watson were having a laugh at their would-be killers' expense while catching their breath. "Did you see the blond one's face? Just brilliant," Sherlock laughed/gasped.

John giggled. "Those poor sods. At least they'll be able to sort out their trauma in prison." The duo chuckled a bit more.

As they finally stopped panting for air, the four criminals were led from the building in varying stages of resignation and bundled into squad cars that had pulled forward from the adjoining street.

"Thanks for that, you two," came a voice from behind Sherlock and John. Detective Inspector Dimmock stepped forward to shake their hands. "Really, well done. I shouldn't have doubted your plan, Mister Holmes."

"No, you really shouldn't have," Sherlock replied with a slight smirk, his tone a bit too disdainful for polite conversation. "Feigning a clumsy attempt to infiltrate their ring and then 'accidentally' blowing cover was child's play - honestly, any oaf could have done it." His pale eyes glinted with mirth as he eyed the DI a tad more blatantly, smirk deepening. "But no matter, the deed is done, and now I really must dash."

"But the paperwork -" Dimmock protested.

Sherlock chuckled mirthlessly. "Me, doing paperwork? I'd rather have been left at the mercy of those unfortunate men in the police wagons. No, I think you'll be able to handle this on your own. Give my regards to Lestrade." He turned abruptly on his heel and began to walk down the street, long coat swirling behind him in the standard dramatic form. Sherlock repressed a snicker as he once again left John to make excuses for the younger man's customary acerbic comments. Forcing John to overstep the boundaries of his comfort zone was quite amusing, and, as of yet, John had never done the same to him. Perhaps he never would.

He heard jogging behind him. "You always do that, Sherlock, you _always_ leave me behind and I always have to ask the forgiveness of the last person you insulted and explain to them that you 'don't mean to' be an impolite prick."

"Most of them already know that I am precisely that, John. Besides, you said so yourself that I don't intentionally act boorish."

John grunted. "I know you don't; that's why I try not to hold it against you."

"Good. Dinner?"

"Starving. Where to?"

"I'm thinking Andaman Thai - I could go for a curry."

John snorted. "As if you'll eat anything anyway." The two walked until they found a street with more traffic and caught a cab.

~…~…~

It was starting. Sherlock could feel it.

Post-case boredom was slithering into his brain and he couldn't stop it.

It was odd, the way he could sense his mind coming down from the adrenaline aftershocks and slowly but surely beginning to slip into that odious state. How utterly tedious. It wasn't as though it was torturous or painful - it was simply vexing and he eventually tired of the sound of his own voice, if you could believe it (the author does not. At all). Ah well, there was no stopping it now.

He dropped a slice of bamboo that had been halfway to his mouth back into his green chicken curry and began to examine the cracks in the ceiling above, brain already swirling with algorithms and numeric sequences. Noticing that Sherlock was no longer making any attempt at eating, John looked up from his gai pad king to see that his cohort was slumped in his seat, head tilted upwards with an expression that bordered on the manic adorning his usually-placid features.

"Problem?" John hedged. "Adul made mine perfectly, so I doubt he made yours any less acceptable. I could pop into the kitchen though, if you'd like."

Sherlock huffed out a sigh. "I once created an algorithm that could calculate how many grains of rice fit into a space of a cubic foot. I was seven years old and my parents had become particularly taken with a Vietnamese restaurant that was quite varied in its selection of species of rice. Mycroft ate so much every time we went there that he can hardly stand to look at rice to this day without his stomach growling noisily - occasionally I will order Asian takeaway right before he comes over to the flat and purposely waft the smell in his direction."

"Sherlock."

"...funny because most of the time I don't even end up eating the food. But back to the algorithm: it was really very elegant, and could be altered to fit the specifications of different types of rice - Basmati, Jasmine, Kinuhikari, Arborio, Japonica -"

"Sherlo -"

"- et cetera. Of course, you'd have to factor in whether or not the rice was cooked or raw, dehydrated or converted, instant or -"

"Okay, okay, stop. Just stop." John held up his hands. Here it was: the oncoming storm. Sherlock had taken perhaps one breath during that entire utterance, and began chewing at his full lower lip as soon as John had halted his monologue. "Post-case boredom?" Sherlock nodded jerkily, eyes rapidly scanning the room around him.

"Well, you can take care of it as you do every other time. Play on your Strad. Start a new experiment. Solve some cold cases for the Yard. Poke around in Bart's mortuary - just please, for the love of god, _don't _bring anything home from there. We don't need a repeat of last Thursday." John still hadn't gotten over finding the goitre on the cutting board. Never again, dammit. _Never. Again._

Sherlock huffed loudly. "Really, John, I can't expect someone as ordinary as yourself to understand that dissecting that woman's goitre was a potentially groundbreaking study in the making. While I will admit that I was not expecting it to spatter blood all over the kitchen as soon as my scalpel barely punctured it, I must also say th-"

John held up both hands as if in supplication. "I don't need to hear about that. New topic, please."

"Hm. Well, yesterday I put a mouse that I captured for Mrs. Hudson into the oven and-"

"New topic."

"I think I may have definitive proof that Mycroft is engaging in amorous activities with Lestrade. Th-"

John groaned lowly and buried his head in his hands. "Oh sweet Jesus. Anything but that - have mercy, Sherlock. New topic."

Hmm. Sherlock's catlike eyes narrowed as his focus shifted to his flatmate and best friend. "John," he said slowly, drawing out the vowel sound a bit longer than usual. John lifted his head to look at Sherlock. He really looked this time.

But to be completely honest, it was more of an ogle.

Sherlock was well aware that he was exceedingly aesthetically pleasing to both sexes. After all, he was hit on by not just everyday people, but some of his targets and enemies as well. Sherlock held back a smirk as he remembered his first encounter with James Moriarty. He may have been playing "Jim from IT" to get to Sherlock, but judging by his dilated pupils and sweaty palms as he had spoken to the detective for the first time, not even the ingenious consulting criminal could resist the appeal of Sherlock Holmes. Unlike humanity, biology did not lie.

Sherlock was dressed rather well tonight, in a fitted deep blue shirt that highlighted the pale blue in his eyes, worn underneath the customary bespoke suit jacket. No tie, of course, as a tie can easily become a convenient strangulation device (he'd learned that the hard way in 2003). No, Sherlock always preferred to leave the top couple of buttons on his shirts undone, exposing the pale, graceful column of his throat that led down to an enticing hollow at the base framed by sharp collarbones. His dark hair was almost artfully disheveled from the evening's chase. In the dim light from the lamp hanging over their table near the window, the detective's cheekbones and heart-shaped mouth created shadows on his pale face. His eyes were slightly hooded, lending his expression the keen, shrewd look it often wore.

In short, "delectable" and "utterly terrifying" had made a baby and its name was William Sherlock Scott Holmes. Only the most asexual of asexuals could possibly be immune to the perils of being in his presence for more than fifteen minutes. And John Watson, the poor bastard, lived with him.

"I'm not his date." "We're not a couple." "In case anyone's interested, I'm not actually gay." Ha. A man did not have to be gay to feel the inexorable pull that Sherlock possessed. And if Sherlock's observations were accurate (and we're not stupid enough to actually question them), John's view of him was not near so platonic as he'd have everyone believe. The signs were all there. Prolonged eye contact. Unconscious mirroring of posture. Fidgeting with hair and nails. And those eyes. They were like black pools in that sturdy, slightly weathered face.

"...What?" John saw the look in Sherlock's eye and suddenly felt like he was stepping through a minefield - one wrong move and he was done for.

Sherlock said nothing. Instead he slowly reached his spidery hand across the table and underneath John's right hand, which was palm side down, until his index and middle finger rested on the pulse point.

Elevated. Moist palms. As Archimedes would say, "Eureka." Sherlock couldn't help the leer that slid across his face in satisfaction.

Unlike ex-army doctors, biology did not lie.

John jerked his hand back and hastily placed it under the table. "What are you doing?" He hissed, eyes flickering from one end of the room to the other.

"Changing the subject," Sherlock rejoined with a smirk. "You seem on edge, John. Perhaps you need something to help you...unwind." Or someone, rather. But he'd get to that soon.

John blinked twice in rapid succession, then ducked his head as he cleared his throat and stabbed a piece of chicken on his plate. "Oh, yeah, I...I'm just a bit worried about those thugs. They won't be in jail forever and they'll have a score to settle with us when they get out."

The consulting detective slowly shook his head, eyes never leaving John's. "We both know that's not quite true, Doctor. You're a medical man - considering the physiological symptoms that you are currently displaying, what would you say you are actually experiencing?"

_Shit_. John could see no clear path out of the minefield. "It's nothing."

"Wrong." The grin widened. "It's everything. What's on your mind, John?"

The older man's face seemed to be carved from stone. "Can we please not do this in public, Sherlock?"

"Why not? We're the only ones in the restaurant, as the other two couples left over six minutes ago and Adul is no doubt chain smoking out in the alley. We may as well have it out at last. You've been repressing yourself for far too long, don't you think? You can't possibly think that's good for you, John." Ah, there was the condescension. At last.

John glared. "We're just friends. Good friends."

'You'd prefer more than that." John narrowed his eyes further and opened his mouth, but Sherlock cut him off. "And please, spare me the tedium of having to listen to you vehemently deny the attraction towards me that you've been nursing for well over a year. We're really both better than that, and I'd rather this not turn into a cesspool of emotional and moral drama - Mummy made me suffer through two entire series of 'Coronation Street' at age eleven and I don't want a repeat."

John's expression was a mixture of bemusement, frustration, and put-upon resignation. "You're babbling again."

"Bored, John, _bored_. My mind rebels at stagnation. Give me problems, give me work, give me the most perplexing cryptogram, or the most convoluted analysis, and I am in my own proper atmosphere. But I despise the dull routine of existence. I crave mental exaltation. Help me not be bored."

"And how do you propose I do that? In your own words, I'm an idiot, just like everyone else."

Sherlock eyed his cohort with a mixture of bitterness and cynicism. "You're not the idiot, my dear Watson. In this case, I am."

John resisted the terribly strong urge to dig wax from his ears. "I'm sorry? Did you actually just say that? I'm afraid you might have a fever."

"Don't change the subject - this is difficult enough already without your cheek. You heard me: I've made a right bloody mess of things."

"How?"

Sherlock stared at a cigarette burn in the wood of the table. "As I mentioned before, I've... been very aware of your feelings for quite a while. And when I began to requite said feelings, loathsome as it seemed to me at first, I should have confessed. Instead I let you think that I was either aromantic or asexual or heterosexual or anything that would keep me from returning your affections. Relationships have never been my area, as you very well know. After all -" he flashed John a humorless smile - "sociopaths are not known for their romantic capabilities. I respect you enough that I'm unwilling to thoughtlessly dive into something that could very well ruin our friendship. What I mean to say is that I, er... care for you, John." _Care_? Was that the word that people used? It would have to do for now.

John felt like someone had just sneaked up behind him and smacked him over the head with a sack of potatoes. Here was his asexual, insufferable, _invent-your-job-and-then-marry-it _flatmate, confessing that the feelings that John had been beating into submissive obscurity since they had first met were equally shared by both parties. Good god, there was no way that this was actually happening. Sherlock Holmes was brilliant and passionate and morbidly funny and quirky and heinously handsome. And attracted to John Watson. In a word, he was exultant.

Then the fact that Sherlock had known about the reciprocation and done absolutely nothing finally processed. And, just like that, John went from "pleased as punch" to "I am going to _fucking_ punch you in the _fucking_ face, you _fucking_ son of a bitch."

Sherlock watched a varied range of emotions cross John's face. Disbelief went to skepticism went to hesitance went to contemplation went to wonder went to incredulity went to pure joy. Sherlock repressed a smile as John began beaming like an idiot. Suddenly a thought seemed to occur to him, and the change in expression was simultaneously humorous and frightening. One second the man sitting opposite the lanky detective was Adorable John, who wore wooly cableknit jumpers and loved small animals; in less than a second he morphed into Captain John H. Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, jaw clenched and eyes dangerously narrowed as though he were staring down the scope of a rifle in preparation of a kill shot. Sherlock had never seen him look at anyone with such predatory anger, let alone himself.

And he was going to ignore the ever-so-slight tightening of his trousers. _Yep_.

"Is everything all right, John?" Wrong question. Everything was obviously not "all right," if John's left hand was any indication (clenched into a fist so tightly that the knuckles were a shocking white). _Oh dear_, Sherlock was in trouble. And it excited him to no end.

"Fifteen months," John murmured lowly, dark eyes boring holes into the younger man's heterochromatic ones. "Fifteen months, twelve days. You knew about it. And you did nothing. Did it never occur to you what I was going through, having to be near you every day and not being able to do anything about it? Did it ever?"

Sherlock was now the one tiptoeing through the minefield. "John, I -"

"And even after you realised you felt the same, you still did bloody fucking _nothing_. How considerate of you, worrying about me enough to let me continue to agonize over the situation. 'I'm so worried about my pride that I can't give it a crack because it might not work out for me. To hell with what John might want, he's a simpleton anyway. I think I'll go harpoon a pig now, because it's easier than _confronting how I feel!'_" John's voice and pitch had risen while he was imitating Sherlock, and by the time he'd finished Sherlock was incredibly grateful that no one was around to hear the small-scale explosion.

"Please, John, you have to listen to me," Sherlock mumbled, feeling considerably chastened as he stared through the table. "I was only trying -"

The ex-army doctor held up a hand and Sherlock clamped his mouth shut. "I don't want to hear it, Sherlock. Just stop talking, or I can promise you there'll be hell to pay. You've said more than enough tonight, and I don't want to hear another word from you for the rest of it. Now, I'm going to ask you a few questions, and all you have to do is nod for 'yes' or shake for 'no.' Think you can you handle that?"

Sherlock nodded slowly.

"Good. Question one: are you attracted to me?"

_Oh, god yes,_ Sherlock wanted to say. Sensually. Intellectually. Aesthetically. Romantically. Emotionally. Sexually. And all he could do was nod vigorously, worrying his lower lip between his teeth. John couldn't help the little grin that overcame his face.

"All right then. Question two: you're aware that the feeling is mutual, correct?"

Another nod.

"Okay then. Last question: do you want me to do something about it?"

Sherlock exhaled loudly and suppressed a groan, looking heavenward and then jerking his head back down, meeting John's scorching gaze with his own.

He'd stepped on a mine. He regretted nothing.

John's smile was now positively feral. "Ah. Right then. Are you finished eating?"

Sherlock nodded once more. It was all he could do to keep from jumping John right then and there and ravishing him on this rickety table. But something told him that he was not going to be in charge tonight. He didn't mind, though. And neither, he concluded, did his dick.

"Good." John somehow made that simple word sound disyllabic and _raw_ and downright inappropriate for public utterance. "Let's go then."

This time, John made the dramatic exit, striding confidently out to the street and efficiently hailing a cab, with Sherlock following closely at his heels (he still hadn't said a word).

The ride was short and tense - the air between the consulting detective and the army doctor seemed so electrically charged that Sherlock was surprised it wasn't emitting loud crackling noises. When they reached the flat, John calmly handed the cabbie the fare and exited, holding the door for Sherlock and softly shutting it after him. Without speaking a word John unlocked the door and they entered, sedately climbing the stairs to their flat. John once more unlocked the door and walked inside, immediately stripping himself of his black jacket and hanging it on one of the pegs. Sherlock followed behind, beginning to remove himself of his coat as well and reaching behind him to shut the door.

The second that the click of the door sounded in the room, virtually all hell broke loose. Well, I say that, but in reality it just means that things escalated so quickly that Sherlock felt significantly discombobulated in what was less than a minute. In a matter of seconds John had shoved Sherlock up against the wall, torn open his expensive shirt, and yanked on Sherlock's scarf to bring their mouths together in a bruising kiss while smoothing his hands down the taller man's chest. Sherlock was groaning lowly, the baritone reverberations being swallowed by John's talented mouth as the ex-soldier's left hand meandered downwards to lightly tease the pale patch of skin just beneath Sherlock's navel. His right hand cradled the back of the consulting detective's head, fingers tangling in the lush dark curls. John tugged experimentally, probably wondering how Sherlock would react. The response was instantaneous.

With an enthusiastic shout Sherlock's knees gave out and he slumped against the wall, eyes rolling upward and then snapping shut as his feet scrabbled for purchase on the hard wooden floor. Holy fuck, that was unexpected. He'd certainly never had that happen before - never had a single action make him lose his usually-impeccable self control. "G-good god, do that again," he gasped. No doubt his face was an embarrassing shade of crimson as he stood there, arms glued to the wall as he did his damndest to hold himself up.

And just like that John was gone.

Sherlock opened his eyes slowly, still attempting to get his breathing under control. John was standing before him, arms folded, face looking stern and less than pleased as he did _that thing_ with his mouth, that _thing_ where he sort of hollowed his cheeks as he reigned in his annoyance. Sherlock got that look a lot, he realized. "I did something wrong." It was supposed to sound like a question.

Instead of replying, John sauntered forward, arms still folded as he eyed his reedy cohort with a look that bordered on the diabolical. "Didn't I say something earlier about your keeping quiet or there'd be hell to pay?" Sherlock almost replied verbally, but he caught himself and cautiously nodded. "All right, then I have a few things that I need to do. For one thing, I'm going to make certain that you can't continue to chatter for the rest of the night." John was inching closer, one of his strong, sturdy hands coming up to grip at the now-rumpled scarf that Sherlock was (miraculously) still wearing, caressing the material with his thumb. His voice had dropped in both volume and register, until he was nearly whispering.

Ohhh. Even though his brain capacity felt substantially diminished, Sherlock understood the gesture and he could have sworn he felt a twitch in his pants. He had a gag kink? You learn something new every day. The room began to feel warm.

"But first, I'm going to fetch those handcuffs that you stole from Detective Inspector Dimmock and fasten you to your bed. And then...I'm going to make you _wait_." John's other hand went back to Sherlock's chest, tracing the flat planes and ghosting over a nipple. Sherlock shuddered. "I'm going to make you wait like you made me wait. And after you've laid there for quite some time -" the hand on Sherlock's scarf wound into his hair and yanked his head down, until John's warm mouth was at Sherlock's ear. "I am going to _fuck you through the mattress_, Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock could feel John's smirk against the sensitive shell of his ear and he nearly choked on his own saliva. Sweet merciful heavens, he had a bondage kink _and_ a submissive leaning. So many new things were being discovered tonight.

How fun.

John released his hold on Sherlock's curls and began walking in the direction of the younger man's bedroom. "Coming?" he asked without turning round, having already snatched the police-issue cuffs from the pocket of the detective's Belstaff.

Sherlock smirked and tried not to look too eager as he followed after the good doctor. _If you play your cards right, then perhaps more than once, John._

~To be continued.

**I usually write my stories on my phone, and the damned autocorrect always screws me. The worst is whenever I try to write "his" and it gets turned into "ho's." I went to type the "Ohhh" toward the end of the chapter and it turned into "O'Higgins" (naturally, I lost my shit I was laughing so hard). Also, my phone doesn't try to correct "fuck," but it unfailingly turns "hell" into "he'll." Sweet fancy Moses ._. **

**"My mind rebels at stagnation. Give me problems, give me work, give me the most abstruse cryptogram, or the most intricate analysis, and I am in my own proper atmosphere. . . . But I abhor the dull routine of existence. I crave for mental exaltation." -Sherlock Holmes (Arthur Conan Doyle)**

**Ten points to Ravenclaw to anyone who knows what book series I was referencing by naming two of the musclemen Arno and Dom. :)**

**Review (and favorite and follow, of course) and you'll receive a gift in the form of a smut-filled second chapter. You know you want it.**

**That's what she said. Or he said, whichever you prefer.**


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